


Heavenly and Held Forever

by changbinglish



Category: BLACKPINK (Band), GOT7
Genre: 97 Liner Ensemble, Alcohol, Ambiguous Relationships, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bisexuality, Endgame Sapphics I Promise, F/F, F/M, Face-Sitting, Friends With Benefits, Getting Together, Hurt/Comfort, LA Rich Asians, Lisa Fucks a Boy and a Girl on Separate Occasions in This One, Multi, Now That's What I Call Friendship Volume 97, Oral Sex, Porn with Feelings, Recreational Drug Use, Self-Aware Social Media Influencers AU, Tenderly Sharing a Clawfoot Bathtub, The Briefest Instance of JenKai, Vaginal Fingering, Vomiting (but it's marked so you can skip it), cathartic sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-27
Updated: 2020-12-07
Packaged: 2021-03-06 01:27:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,785
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25555051
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/changbinglish/pseuds/changbinglish
Summary: “I think we’re special,” she offers and lets her head get heavier on Jennie’s shoulder. “At least we don’t Juul.” She’s joking but her voice has gotten tender, like overripe fruit, a tone coated in sweetness that only Bambam hears whenever they stay up too late, talking about the abstract and the concrete and their lives in every verb tense, too high or drunk or both to go to their own rooms. She speaks like that now as Jennie strokes her hair.Jennie snorts. “I have been known to Juul on occasion.”“Well,” Lisa mumbles, knowing the ridicule won’t hurt, “then I guess I’m the only special one here.”
Relationships: Jennie Kim/Lalisa Manoban | Lisa, Kunpimook Bhuwakul | BamBam/Lalisa Manoban | Lisa
Comments: 6
Kudos: 51





	1. Hours Shake the Girl

**Author's Note:**

> Title and chapter titles are from [Monumental Glow by HOLYCHILD](https://youtu.be/zKmgTGRBxIQ)
> 
> I find actual YouTubers/influencers insufferable but they are fun in fiction maybe. Also I do not endorse wealth glorification but having Things and Nice House is a kinky fantasy of mine. No one fucks in the first chapter just yet
> 
> More relevant suggested listening by HOLYCHILD: [Running Behind](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qnFJpPFangI) and [Playboy Girl](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=agYEq8sZvdQ) (CW for food and vomit in MV) and actually just the whole album [The Shape of Brat Pop to Come](https://open.spotify.com/album/653eEfPXgjuaGq9BJXSA6t?si=KyPImZcER-C-mwpZ03rfHA)

Lisa’s hair is orange when she first meets Jennie at a shoot for an up-and-coming publication. Some quarterly release called _Whistle_ featuring lengthy women in bright colors, juxtaposed with lowercase poetry by writers with a certain brand of relatable online dread. Real artsy shit.

Up until then, Lisa’s modeling gigs had strictly been for friends or friends of friends, but her network has since expanded after participating in an impromptu portrait session with a random assortment of 97 Liners. It’s incredible what things can come of a conventionally attractive, same-age group of friends, a Holga 120N, and the quiet but significant desire for clout by creative means.

And weed. It was present, in abundance, and everyone except Chaeyoung took turns rolling and hitting blunts on the balcony.

Minghao had taken the shots, freely using every kind of lighting available in the house, he arranged an army of lamps directed at her and Bambam and Chaeyoung and Yugyeom and Mingyu and whoever else was there that day. After developing the film, he posted them on Instagram with no filter and all the right hashtags. Minimal captions, only a word or two or some tangentially-related emojis.

People tapped on her, to see her name on their screen. Double-tapped, to show admiration. Because Minghao, with his impeccable eye for beauty, guessed the correct formula for showcasing Lisa’s face, her hair, the neverending stretch of her limbs. The photo in question is her pulling a pearl necklace taut from her neck, film grain and selective focus highlighting the twinkle in her eye and lip gloss. The color is washed out and dreamy, the correct kind of overexposed, and evidently that’s the shit everyone eats up.

She already had some dozen thousand followers, but the count almost doubled in a week. People had commented some very nice things, some flattering emoji combinations, after sifting through the gratuitous expressions of thirst. In terms of popularity, her photo was second only to the one of Bambam, Prada sunglasses halfway down his face, feeding Mingyu popcorn with chopsticks, both of them healthily zooted. But she’s not complaining, she’s happy for them and their multitude of Likes.

It all happens very quickly. She gets a DM from @WHISTLE.MAG on Instagram asking if she’d be interested in modeling some pieces from rising designers for their next release. She consults Bambam, who just jokes “I don’t know how much I trust someone without a blue checkmark, though.” As if either of them are fucking verified. But it happens soon enough, and on her day off from the studio, she goes to work her angles.

When she gets to the outdoor set, the team from the magazine is just a photographer and two stylists but they all juggle multiple tasks with palpable anxiety. In the dressing room trailer they fuss around four other models, hands full with makeup brushes and reflectors and props and spray bottles.

It’s a lot of group shots and Lisa’s sociable enough, but she can never fully buy into these kinds of people. They assume some overly casual tone when speaking to strangers they deem their equals or lesser. Not that she blames them exactly, maybe they were just raised different. But their lilting voices and smug giggles are their habits of veiled condescension and it is, to say the least, annoying to Lisa. Not enough to make her mean, she just doesn’t quite vibe with any of the models.

Except for one of them.

Jennie is the only other Asian girl there. She has a baby face, like Lisa, and is wearing acrylic fruit-shaped earrings as assigned by the stylists, like Lisa. Their tops are tube and peplum respectively, and at one point they’re both handed interesting but highly impractical sunglasses to put on. Like elevated, handcrafted, highbrow (literally) shutter shades. Lisa makes Jennie laugh by doing her best Kanye impression.

“I’m gonna let you finish,” she starts, holding her hands up defensively, using a water bottle as a mic, “but Beyoncé had the best music video of all time!”

Jennie snorts when she laughs. It’s hard not to join her when it’s so damn adorable.

“He wasn’t wrong, though. About that.”

The photographer directs them to sit on the grass, on the pool chairs, look bored, look sun-soaked. His demeanor isn’t chill or familiar like Minghao or Bambam. He speaks quickly in a tight sort of tone that makes it easy for the girls to give him “bitchy,” give him “I don’t wanna be here” as he orders them to cross their arms and legs and roll their eyes.

It’s grating, and it’s fucking hot outside in cloudless mid-May LA, and they’re not even playing good music. Overall it’s a bit of a messy ordeal, but Lisa and Jennie agree that it's all a labor of love, and at least the pay is good for indie.

“They’re going, how you say, balls to the wall.” Lisa says, supposedly in observance of the photographer’s constant dabbing of his sweaty forehead. But sometimes she just says shit.

“Yeah,” Jennie muses, “tits to the wind, some might say.”

They definitely don’t regret the opportunity, because the shots turn out great. Jennie’s favorite is the one where she has her elbow propped up on Lisa’s shoulder, cat-eying the camera while Lisa’s enormous sunglasses impede any detectable facial expression beyond slightly parted shiny lips. Coincidentally it is also Lisa’s favorite, though a close second is a view of Jennie in profile, her head half-eclipsing another model’s head-on gaze, all the pretty curves of her nose and cheeks and lips subtly sharpened in the sunshine.

For their hour-long break, they get treated to lunch at a vegan restaurant, craft services be damned. It’s all outdoor seating squeezed under awnings with eccentric prints, where more group selfies are taken for “behind the scenes” posts. The cliques are clearly delineated even though nobody else had previously known each other, but it doesn’t matter, Jennie and Lisa can listen to each other all day.

They learn about the other qualities they share besides their home continent, like how they’re both the only child in their families, their lofty class status, their love of high-waisted shorts. This is Jennie’s fourth shoot this month. Lisa admits this is the first time she’s being photographed for print. The current conversation topic is Lisa’s most recent combination of odd job and highly coveted concert experience.

“You went to Coachella?” Jennie says, disbelief coloring her voice. Lisa is surprised that she sounds so surprised, because she can tell Jennie is more than capable of affording Coachella.

“Uh, technically. Last year my best friend and I wanted to see Beyoncé and Childish Gambino, but we didn’t want to spend fucking, six hundred each on passes.” Even though they were also reasonably capable of affording Coachella. “Our mutual friend knew one of the vendors for it, and she hooked us up with volunteer jobs. We were selling lemonade and watermelon juice the first weekend.”

Lisa ruminates on the memory and continues with a shudder. “We charged _nine dollars_ per drink.”

“Nine U.S. American fucking dollars?” Jennie echoes.

Lisa nods. “And when we ran out of watermelon juice, we just diluted the lemonade and added those artificial flavor syrups. I almost passed out from heat exhaustion. We were so tired by the end of the first day we just laid down on a blanket and listened to Post Malone’s set from like a mile away.”

The work was exhausting, but she thinks fondly of the t-shirts their team had to wear, “THIRST PATROL” printed in bright pink and yellow, rolling up the short sleeves with Bambam, slapping him with sunscreen. Every five minutes they would have to direct someone to Gobi stage, and it took a few hours to acclimate to the constant concentrated stink of marijuana.

“I also discovered hundreds of exciting new ways that white people are the worst. And I talked to maybe four sober people the whole time. But obviously it was all worth it for Beyoncé.”

Jennie drags out an “ah” at the story, hugging her knees upon the bench. Her shoulder brushes against Lisa’s and she’s glad they’re sitting next to each other and not across the table, she’d have to yell to be heard.

“I could never do music festivals. I hate crowds. I can barely handle concerts or clubs.”

Lisa nods and understands, that’s why she sounded so amazed. Jennie’s interesting. She gives the impression that she isn’t afraid to do what she wants, but feels especially susceptible to pressure from other people. Like if a flower’s thorns fell off upon watering, but grew back at the threat of incautious hands.

By 7 PM they’ve wrung out all the rays of prime golden hour, and they wrap up shooting. Lisa remembers the light cycling through every shade of orange, harmonizing in airy chords with the spotless sky, casting some honey shine in Jennie’s irises, giving them a depth exceeding all the shots taken that day. And Lisa is surrounded by gorgeous people daily, they are so frequently in her line of sight that she feels desensitized to beauty, but Jennie feels different. They get each other, after only existing in each other’s lives for the better part of a workday.

As everyone goes over the model release forms one last time, she catches Lisa staring. A breeze has picked up and is beckoning Jennie’s hair westward, she tucks some of it behind her ear and Lisa can’t look away. Why would she?

“What?” Jennie asks through a smile, like she knows.

Lisa blinks and recomposes herself. “Shit, sorry, I zoned out.” She shakes her head and changes the subject. “Hey. You know I know some Korean?”

Smile widening, Jennie gives her an expectant look. “Okay, let’s hear it then.”

Lisa clears her throat and does a basic “annyeong haseyo, Lalisa Manoban ibnida.” She continues with consistent formality, “noona neomu yeppeo, michyeo, replay, replay, replay.”

Jennie laughs, making a face of faux ridicule. “Wow, you nailed it. Spoken like a true SHINee World native.”

In the burnt-out light of the expired afternoon, Jennie’s eyeshadow glints on her crinkled lids. Lisa blooms with pride and holds her breath at the sight. _She_ did that, _she_ made her laugh. Not that it’s unusual, she makes a lot of people laugh. But it’s a wonderful feeling, like Lisa’s hearing her favorite song for the first time.

From that day on they are constantly texting. Jennie sends pictures of her dogs and the PR packages she gets from Chanel and Gucci and other absurdly expensive brands. Because her mom has some ridiculous luxury fashion marketing job that means she gets free, lavishly packaged shit in the mail every week, straight from the source. And she has a desk at the office where she technically interns, a position made possible entirely by nepotism. When you matter that much in the world of looking good, you get gifted handbags and sunglasses and full sets of lipstick, arriving in crisp insignia-boasting boxes that open up like a fairy tale pop-up book. Boxes lined with foil that you can see your own reflection in.

Jennie is _stupid_ rich where Lisa is regular rich. She sends worm’s-eye shots of her cats and Bambam’s cats, the compressed fur of their underbellies and tucked-in legs when they sit on their glass tables, with cute stickers and filters.

They meet up for bubble tea and Lisa invites her over to binge Boys Over Flowers. She introduces Jennie to Bambam, who grabs his keys to leave for work just as she crosses the threshold of their home. He nods at her cheerfully and departs with a good-natured peace sign.

Splitting a bowl of chocolate-covered almonds, they lounge on the sectional and watch Gu Junpyo’s arrogance projected onto a white wall, but there’s only so much they can take before Jennie turns, elbow propped up on the sofa, holding her tilted head in her hand.

“Do you ever miss home, Lisa?”

Mid-way of bringing an almond to her mouth, Lisa pauses. “Yeah. I do. But we try to go back at least once a year, or our families fly out when there’s a holiday.”

And then she gets into their “life journey” or whatever, which she’s always happy to talk about, though she’s had enough practice discussing it for vlogs and interviews and first-meetings. Jennie’s about to become an inextricable part of her life, she hopes, so this part is necessary.

After she and Bambam had saved up their childhood’s worth of earnings from Thai TV talent shows and ad spots, made some good investments, and never went to college, they were able to lease a house just outside of West Hollywood. The universe was proud when they made their move to California, aligning the stars for them to become instructors at a pretty significant dance studio, where they teach contemporary styles to classes upwards of two hundred people each week. There are still other studios that request to borrow them for special clinics.

It also helps that they’ve been able to find some like-minded individuals, other Asians who coincidentally share their birth year and absence of heterosexuality (with the exception of Jaehyun, but he’s neither confirmed nor denied anything, so the jury's still out on him). They’ve formed something of a collective in the 97 Liner YouTube channel, to which they all contribute videos using their individual talents. It’s an “organic” thing, at least as organic as monetized videos on the internet can be, free of clickbait thumbnails or overwrought irony. They’ve learned to cultivate a degree of appealing artifice that can work well with sincerity, with their genuine selves, while still reaching and selling to a decent demographic.

Minghao and Mingyu post their fashion shit, style hauls and lookbooks and the occasional couple vlog, but they refuse to show any sort of PDA on-camera, because they agree it’s “cringe.” Chan and Chaeyoung, their representative Australian transplants, like to cover or remix whatever’s charting at the moment, sometimes Jihyo and Minnie lend their voices, too. They have since branched out to posting original songs, which get ample support on SoundCloud as well. There’s the choreography videos from Bambam and Yugyeom and Lisa and Mina, separate from what their studios post, the special ones they put together on their own time.

It was actually all Jungkook’s idea, originally. He owns the channel and does the most for it, makes the final edit before anything goes up, distributes all the revenue among them. He does everything from video game streams to product unboxings to shit like doing Seokmin’s makeup while high on edibles. Everyone still has their own pursuits, but for him it’s his full-time job and passion project. Thank God his heart is so big. It’s allowed a lot of growth.

There’s plenty of cross-contamination as well, collaborative music videos or trending challenges, they try to appear and participate in each other’s content as frequently as they can. People love when they just film themselves hanging out in their nice houses and sunny urban idyllic LA, the parts that are pleasant on screen. And their beloved indie actor Cha Eunwoo garner a big chunk of views, even when his appearances last less than a minute in their videos.

It’s a mess and it’s all over the place, but people seem to like their dynamic, their vibes, their balance struck between eclectic and homogenous. They’re often described as “the Bon Appétit Test Kitchen but instead of chefs they’re Asian creatives on the generational cusp between Millennial and Gen Z.” Over the years their subscriber count has climbed well past the half-million mark.

Jennie gives a loud “ah” in recognition when she looks them up and the first result is a video titled “Working Out With Jaehyun” in which several of them try to keep up with him in the gym, getting comically winded while exclaiming, with an exaggerated air of devotion, how “life-ruiningly sexy” he is.

Jennie marvels at the view count. “That’s so cool. You guys are so cool. I’m gonna watch all of these now.”

Lisa accepts the flattery with a hand batting the air, but she secretly hopes Jennie will go home and watch her solo dance videos. The ones she’s proudest of.

Their meet-ups and visits to each other’s homes become regular, routine. Not too far from Lisa and Bambam’s modest mansion, discounting traffic, Jennie lives with her roommate, Jisoo, in some stupidly upscale apartment in Koreatown. She soon becomes frequently tagged on Lisa’s socials. They convene for brunch when their off days overlap.

Lisa decides she only likes to model if Jennie’s with her. Jennie puts in a good word for her with some talent managers and they’re both hired onto another shoot, a highly prestigious editorial. Afterwards, they briefly become the subject of some irrelevant Instagram drama among other models and their weird zealot followers. They laugh at it while sitting at Lisa’s dining table on a Saturday morning, their spreads in the magazine all glossy and envy-mongering. Lisa jokes that the perfume samples wedged between their pages are leagues sexier than either of them.

“This energy is misdirected. It’s these fucking fragrance bottles they should be beefing with.”

They’re finishing off the dregs of homemade Sangria that Lisa and Bambam made last night, as a fun, overly-sweet science experiment. Jennie pulls out a wine-soaked lemon, gives it a tiny lick, and twists her face in displeasure. Lisa’s about to do the same when she’s pressed to shed some more layers.

“Bambam’s not like, your boyfriend, right? Were you ever together?”

“No,” Lisa asserts, laughing incredulously. “Jesus no, he’s my best friend. Like, we’ve known each other ever since we could both walk. We danced together in Thailand as kids. And now we’re dancing here, as big kids.”

Lisa realizes she feels so comfortable with Jennie that she’d neglected to share some things that seem so obvious and needless to say to her. Like she’d assumed that Jennie already knew every intimate detail about her life, because having a lot in common fills in a good amount of blanks between them. She’d just underestimated how many are still empty.

Bambam isn’t exactly like a brother to her, either. He is inextricably woven into every fiber of her life, and her to him. They necessitate one another, endlessly, but like, in a chill way.

Lisa clarifies, “also, we’re both super fucking gay.”

“Okay, that’s what I figured,” Jennie says immediately, almost excited now that her hunches have been confirmed. “I’m very bi so I feel like I got a read. I mean, you guys live _here_. Whenever I drive here, I always pass this place with a sign that just says ‘ _Enema_ ’ in cursive.”

With a giggle, Lisa masks how her heart rockets at the revelation. The weird step where each new person requires another coming out, finally over, and with flying colors. Another blank filled.

“Yeah. We’re not like, absolutely exclusively gay, though. You know the Kinsey Scale?”

Jennie nods, because obviously.

Lisa puckers her lip in thought. “We’re both, hmm… like, Kinsey 5.5’s. Neither of us really put a name to it. Technically bi, I guess. ‘Gay’ is easiest.”

“Gay with exceptions.” Jennie says with a knowing nod.

Lisa laughs. “Yeah, that’s one way to put it.”

Then she expects Jennie to pry about her love life and exes, because that’s where the natural flow of curious conversation would lead, but she doesn’t. They’re both single and they just let that hang in the air, silently.

Jennie tells her that her favorite video from the 97 Liners is, genuinely, Lisa’s choreography for “Swalla” by Nicki Minaj, followed closely by Bambam and Jamie and Yugyeom’s “Tattoo Adventure.”

They get bored after the better part of an hour passes and Lisa spontaneously decides to perform a half-Marie-Kondo on the stuff in her closet. Jennie’s happy to help because she has nothing better to do.

Her walk-in is occupied by squatters in the form of photo albums stacked in boxes and competition trophies from more recent years—the rest are with her family back home—and at least a dozen hastily-purchased fast fashion items that aren’t even worth a Depop listing at this point. They rifle through everything, sorting tangible memories and out-of-season polyester artifacts into discrete categories of “discard” and “too precious to throw away.”

Lisa puts on one of her playlists in the background, a mix of 90s and 2000s delights, and they intertwine their joy in throwback tracks from their formative years. J-Lo comes on and Jennie’s eyes go satellite dish wide. They both scream.

Jennie’s lost all composure, hands to her temples. “Shit! Shit! This song is the foundation of my entire fucking identity!” Jennie yells louder than Lisa’s ever heard her before, and it makes her cackle.

“ _Don’t be fooled by the rocks that I got, I’m still, I’m still Jenny from the block,_ ”

They put on an attitude and rock to the beat, adopting an air of bravado like they’re made of diamonds mined by the hands of Ms. Lopez herself. Lisa reserves the good dance moves for the studio and is content to make a fool of herself just to hear the ring of Jennie’s laugh.

“ _Used to have a little now I have a lot, no matter where I go I know where I came from!_ ”

The two girls, along with bins and bags of miscellany, have now spilled out of the closet and half sit, half-lay down on the pink shag of Lisa’s area rug. They’re next to where Louis was grooming himself, annoyed that they’re infringing on his quickly-shrinking rectangle of sunlight. They flip through a tiny album of polaroids from last year, full of the 97 Liners in blurred bliss, and Jennie doesn’t linger on any photos if Lisa isn’t in them.

She’s staring at one of Lisa carrying Bambam on her back when they were at Santa Monica beach, hunched over, wearing matching airbrush shirts that probably say something wildly embarrassing. Lisa can hear in her head the way he screamed before she dropped him in the sand.

“Lisa,” Jennie says, in her perma-pout way, “you’re the prettiest girl I know. And the majority of the people I’ve had to deal with the last few years are all, like, professionally pretty girls.”

And _oh_ , it’s so sudden, it makes Lisa’s chest feel vice-tight. Not like she isn’t regularly reminded of her beauty, but from Jennie, with these words? Hearing them makes her feel like she’s hearing her favorite song for the first time.

Jennie laughs bitterly with her head falling into her hands. “But Jesus, they’re so dumb. Not as dumb as guys, but some of them are so stupid and empty and they try so hard to be different.”

She leans back against a box and stares at nothing in particular. “I think if you have to try hard to be unique, you’re probably not meant to be anything special. And I know that sounds _so_ fucking mean and self-important, and maybe we’re just a couple of basic ABG’s who aren’t that special either, but...”

She chews on one corner of her lip in thought. Somehow, Lisa’s head finds a home on her shoulder.

Jennie reaches a conclusion. “But, I’d like to think we’re special. In some way.”

Lisa nods, looking at Jennie and trying to communicate with her eyes alone that she thinks she’s worth her weight in gold times a million. Wonders if they speak this language, or can learn from one another.

“I think we’re special,” she offers and lets her head get heavier on Jennie’s shoulder. “At least we don’t Juul.” She’s joking but her voice has gotten tender, like overripe fruit, a tone coated in sweetness that only Bambam hears whenever they stay up too late, talking about the abstract and the concrete and their lives in every verb tense, too high or drunk or both to go to their own rooms. She speaks like that now as Jennie strokes her hair.

Jennie snorts. “I have been known to Juul on occasion.”

“Well,” Lisa mumbles, knowing the ridicule won’t hurt. “Then I guess _I’m_ the only special one here.”

At some point in the playlist, Jennie kisses her forehead as a casual goodbye. They stow all the stuff for donation in the trunk of Bambam’s BMW and put away the rest of her possessions, now tidy and ordered. After Jennie leaves the house, Lisa screams in the hallway. The cats flinch in alarm and look at her with huge, round pupils.

Pretty soon, Jennie becomes the last person she thinks of before she goes to bed, baby face and pin-straight hair, soft and strong like her, imprinted behind her eyelids.

Bambam knows, because Lisa confides everything in him, including the starring roles of her waking dreams. It’s not often that she thinks she’d like someone to be the sole proprietor of her heart, but Jennie’s changed things. She tells Bambam this but he’s not the committed relationship type, so his counsel isn’t worth much. So she calls Chaeyoung over to drink (well, Lisa drinks and Chaeyoung sips on rosé in a can, only finishing maybe a quarter of it before Lisa takes it over) and bemoan the failings of her own feelings.

"It's not fair," Lisa says, throwing her head onto the table, which is glass, so her forehead will leave a smudge. Chaeyoung inquires with a little "mm?"

Lisa lolls her head to the side. "She's so straight. But _so_ sexy. And I love her."

Chaeyoung pets Leo and parts his fur as he struggles to keep his eyes open. “I thought she was bi?”

“She is, but she talks about guys more than girls.” Lisa’s lips are puffed out and her voice is muffled into her arm. “Is that shitty of me?”

Jennie doesn’t bring up romance often, but has aired out her preference for boys with fit bodies and emotional intelligence, who only exist if you believe in them, like fucking Tinker Bell. She and Lisa comb through her Instagram Explore Page and Lisa analyzes each thirst trap selfie, from the strategic warm shift of natural light from bay windows to the degree of effectiveness achieved by sweatpants contours. Their captions are all garbage. She humors Jennie, who usually agrees with her criticism of men and their egregious curation errors, but the difference between them lies in Lisa’s resistance to the thirst.

“Maybe she gets shy talking about girls?” Chaeyoung offers it with the intent to soothe her, but it doesn’t work.

“She wouldn’t be shy. Especially not with me. Like, I’m not shy with you. Because you’re my best friend.”

Leo meows as if he’s a part of the conversation. Lisa plays along. “Wait, Leo, you’re right. Rosie’s my _girl_ best friend, and Bambam’s my _boy_ best friend. Jennie’s also my best friend but I _want_ her to be my _girlfriend_.”

“So… You should ask her out.” Chaeyoung, ever the voice of reason, doesn’t understand that the task she is suggesting is Herculean.

Because it isn’t. Lisa’s just scared.

Hopelessness and hopefulness exist side by side in her. Maybe holding Jennie’s body close to hers, so tight that there’s no space between them for the sunlight to seep through, is just as likely as a fate in which she dies alone, with only her cats to remember her.

 _How dramatic, pathetic_ , she thinks, knocking her head a few times on the glass, stopping only when Leo meows at her wallowing.


	2. With Bile on My Lips

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you need to skip the vomiting part, it is marked with {{{ triple curly brackets }}} before and after. Sex With A Boy scene is marked ♂[ like this ]♂

Lisa’s hair is brown when she gets the notification that the 97 Liners YouTube channel has reached a million subscribers. The group chat and all her social platforms rage like a brushfire of emojis and exclamation points for three days straight in celebration, and soon after, Jungkook gets the golden play button in the mail. He frantically tries to coordinate a time to film a thank-you video where they can all be present, or at least as many of them as possible, because they’re all busy, and Eunwoo had just left to film in Atlanta. Bambam says not to worry, they’ll edit him in with shitty green screen in post.

It ends up being a whole event. In the afternoon they meet up for the thank-you video, each of them share a brief message to the camera, first in English and then in Korean or Chinese or Thai or Japanese, and a group selfie with the play button. Then when the footage is all recorded, Jungkook’s house approaches maximum occupancy as friends pour in for the party. Lisa, of course, invites Jennie, who had sent her a bouquet of peonies as soon as she found out the news. The flowers stand proud on her nightstand and sweeten the air, like she’s breathing Jennie in at the opposite edges of sleep and wake.

Jungkook declares that the dress code is “whatever makes you feel like the best version of yourself.” Bambam suggests that anyone who feels comfortable enough should join him in “thot semi-formal” attire.

Not that size matters, but it’s clear why Jungkook’s house is the main venue for most occasions among their friends. The joke is that he can afford what is essentially half a villa because he’s God’s favorite and around a dozen kids were murdered there in the 70s, probably. But it’s a nice place. He lives with three or four or maybe even five people. Lisa’s not sure.

If it had been a more casual affair, dozens of shoes would line the foyer, but the tile is theirs to sully. On the kitchen island is a multicultural mess of food and beverage. A random-ass charcuterie board disrupts a row of appetizers delivered from the local Asian fusion places and a couple of homemade offerings. Somehow, like the present sample of celebrants, a potluck can be eclectic _and_ homogenous, if the conditions are right. Mingyu’s “friend who has a vineyard” shows up with several bottles of non-Champagne champagne, custom labels boasting _1997_ in embossed gold paper. Bambam marvels at the gift and asks if it means the wine is actually as old as its recipients. In a panic, Jungkook realizes he doesn’t have enough fancy glasses for everyone.

It’s fine, though, most people take their pick of beer or Hennessy or soju or eyeballed cocktails. The “97 bubbly” is only necessary for the toast. Jungkook doesn’t stop crying after his heartfelt speech about how he’s “so glad to have found such a talented and harmonious group of friends to make shit with holy shit I love you guys so much.” He slurs through a confession that he hopes they end up in Forbes 30 Under 30 or the cover of Time or something. Everyone within his radius pats him on the head and back and shoulder in genuine support, gives him a huge shaky hug, some kiss him on the cheek, reciprocating his outpour of love.

Lisa tips her head back like it'll lessen the fizzy slide down her throat, the too-warm drop into her stomach. One glass, then two, as she gradually slips between all her friends in a seamless sequence of conversation, keeping Bambam nearby when her arm isn’t linked in his. She can hold her own more than he can, even when he’s eaten more beforehand. But seeing as they weigh next to nothing by most standards, it's not like either of them can go on for very long before their brains start to float in a blurred reality soup, bodies and faces heating at the exact same pace, mirrored temperatures, and soon everything is just bubbles and color. Jennie’s here, in light blue, and Lisa’s feeling bold.

“Ayo, Jennie!” Bambam drags out each vowel as his eyes light up at the sight of her. Jennie’s talking to a guy they’ve never seen before as the pairs converge on the outskirts of some intellectual conversation between their more well-read peers.

It’s hard not to straight-up swoon at how Jennie looks tonight. When she’s not dressed like a grandma with a fortune, she wears things like this, off-the-shoulder tops that show off her perfect neck and waist. Hair up in an immaculate high ponytail, like her, but Lisa’s bangs are down and Jennie’s flyaways are non-existent, almost militantly styled. They embrace and Jennie sways her with excited noises and congratulations. Lisa can feel the warmth of skin between Jennie’s shoulder blades and smell the Chloé fragrance behind her ears. They may have stayed that way forever if not for the guy behind her meeting Lisa’s eyes for just a moment. After Bambam gets his hug from Jennie, too, he introduces himself to him.

“I’m Bambam, nice to meet you. I like your shirt.” Bambam casually thumbs at the collar of his leather-trim shirt, admiring the teal print and supposedly glossing over how the top three buttons are undone. Boundaries become a little less of a priority once they’ve imbibed a certain volume. The guy blinks and starts a little grin.

“Thanks. I’m Jongin. But you can call me Kai.” Lisa’s not sure who invited him. If it was Jennie, she would have introduced him.

Bambam nods. “Cool. Why Kai?” As if his name isn’t Bambam.

He smiles almost bashfully. “White people get nervous when I tell them my name is Kim Jongin.”

It takes a few moments but Bambam laughter comes out in loud, boisterous barks as he claps Jongin on the back. “Fucking fair enough man!”

Lisa laughs too, even if it wasn’t that funny. She remembers that one of Jennie’s dogs is named Kai.

They’re on the second level of the house and they can hear Ten in the kitchen loudly calling them over for shots, and Lisa almost has a thought of concern for her own state. Has she really only had the two glasses of sparkling wine? The weight of the room around her would suggest otherwise, or speak to the potency of the 97 Bubbly.

Her hand instinctively pulls Jennie by the wrist down the stairs, the two men continue to talk behind them, Jennie briskly mentions that she’s done a couple shoots with Jongin before, and that’s how she knows him. They catch up to Ten on the couch, a row of colorful shot glasses lined up on the coffee table. A heavy book about bonsai trees has been displaced by limes and Patrón. Nayeon and Other Chaeyoung are sitting on the floor and they beckon Bambam over as they salt their hands. Yugyeom, who famously hates tequila, joins them and opts for soju instead.

Jennie and Lisa do a shot together, ponytails dipping back in unison, they bite into each other’s lime wedges with eyes squeezed shut. When Lisa sucks up the juice she feels the tip of Jennie’s finger poke her tongue and drag out of her mouth, catching syrup-slow on her bottom lip before pulling back. _Holy shit_. Alarms light up in Lisa’s head, all red and bass, this is too real to be an accident. She swallows again and wants to drink the giggles out of Jennie’s mouth.

“What the fuck,” Bambam rasps, face scrunched up as he slams his second glass back down. “Why is it worse this time?”

“You should’ve just stuck to soju like me,” Yugyeom teases, tsking and shaking his head.

Lisa likes nights like this, when all her friends are together and laughing and pretending that money is no object and they’re not at time’s mercy. And now, with Jennie leaning into her, pressing their cheeks together with her phone posed above them for selfies, she wraps both arms around Jennie’s waist. Jennie presses a warm, wet kiss into her cheek, _smack_ , takes their picture in bursts, _snapsnapsnapsnap_.

“Jesus. I love you so much,” Lisa mumbles so quietly. She means it and it wouldn’t be a crime if Jennie heard it, but her admission is drowned by Jackson’s telltale giddy scream ringing through the first floor, he must have beat one of Jungkook’s roommates at some drinking game because an eruption of cheers ripples through the throng surrounding him.

Lisa wishes Chaeyoung (her Chaeyoung) were there with her but she’s up in Portland for a collaboration. She knows Chaeyoung doesn’t drink too much but when she does, she’s liable to say something somewhat batshit. to make things easier and harder. She would probably comment on how cute Lisa and Jennie are, or ask Jongin his workout routine and nod with fake-interested _wow_ s and _uh-huh_ s, which would force Lisa to hide her snickering. Accidentally wingman her with an unpredictable amount of success.

“I’m gonna go outside to smoke.” Jennie says, even though she means vape, looking a bit pensive as the gathering seems to operate at twice the volume it did just minutes ago. Lisa wants to join her, to assert _I’ll come with you_ , but Jennie slips out of her arms before cold air takes her place at Lisa’s side. She watches Jennie ascend the staircase again and somehow Lisa finds herself immobile. What is it that stops her? Cowardice? The presence of dozens of people who aren’t Chaeyoung?

Whatever it is, Ten and Bambam are the stars of the immediate moment, demanding that Lisa show pictures of her cats to a random council composed of Yugyeom, Miyeon, Jamie, and Yibo, so they can judge which of their three Thai friends owns the cutest ones. It’s easier to pull out her phone and stay seated than try and summon a normal amount of energy to raise up and follow Jennie, so she lets Bambam slot in next to her and tries to scroll to find the most stunning shot of Luca, her more picturesque ragdoll, for the sudden contest.

It doesn’t matter who ends up winning because Ten gets distracted and asks how things are going at their studio, and it doesn’t matter how things are going at their studio because Bambam changes the subject to how badly he wants a Supreme money gun after sleeping with a guy who, he later learned on the way out of his house, owned one and kept it in a highly visible, easy-to-steal-from location. But Bambam, regrettably, did the good person thing and left it untouched.

“It’s called a _cash cannon_ ,” Bambam mumbles with utmost drunken sincerity, “and I only want one that’s _authentic_.”

A different version of Lisa—a more sober one who was _not_ in hopeless love with a girl out of her reach—would tell Bambam that she usually agrees with him, but this is one of the stupider items on his wishlist. The speed at which the conversation changes course feels like whiplash and she thinks she needs some water, or air, or to see Jennie again. So she gets up and smoothes her hair back. She finds a glass of water to gulp down and try to summon the poise required to climb the stairs.

She makes it up in a surprisingly short amount of time and passes the people on the second floor game room playing Mario Kart, she waves hi to Sorn and checks for which hallway leads to the balcony. She bumps into a stupidly tall man and goes into an awkward shuffle as they try to get out of each other’s way and when he maneuvers around her, the doors to the balcony are ajar at the end of the hallway. There’s just two people out there, lit by string lights hung in zig-zags across the lattice pergola. Lisa walks a few steps closer and sees their faces obscured by one another’s. There’s no space between them.

It’s Jennie. And Jongin. They’re kissing.

_Oh, of course they are._

Lisa’s face doesn’t change much at first, but everything behind it does, the world shifts violently within her skull.

Fucking of course she’s kissing him, she starts to think, trying to champion some internal voice of reason that feels more like a self-directed _I told you so_ as she grips the nearest wall to pivot and start walking back the way she came.

It almost feels dramatic the way her face drops then, like she can see herself in a viewfinder, her cheeks suddenly ten pounds heavier on some invisible camera. Maybe the smallest squeak of despair leaps through her lips but everything is too loud to be sure. She blinks to refocus and return downstairs.

Jennie’s kissing Jongin because of course she is, because why would she ever even consider the thought of kissing Lisa like they belonged to each other. She should’ve seen it coming and nipped those feelings in the bud before they had the chance to blossom. Each step on the stair case feels new and less real than the last.

And then it begins. Something sick and awful starts to gnaw inside her chest and threatens to push refuse through her tear ducts. Everything happens too fast and it’s all inside her when every moment up until now had been taking its sweet, lime-flavored time. Nobody can tell but it’s cruel how quickly things are catching up to her in this moment.

{{{

The thoughts reach her stomach. Whisper-scream in her liver. She’s gonna throw up.

Hand over her mouth, she squints and tries to search the room for Bambam or Chaeyoung. She remembers Chaeyoung couldn’t make it because she’s out of town, then spots Bambam leaning against the kitchen island. His back is turned to her and he’s talking to Chris and Chungha.

Lisa moves as quickly as she can without jostling her guts too much. She’s not even wearing heels but it feels like that with her pathetic clumsy walk, like Bambi walking on ice. On the way to the bathroom she grabs Bambam and drags him away from the others.

“Hey wait—“ He protests at first until he sees her puffy face and how tightly she’s clasping her mouth and he stops resisting, realization in his hushed “oh shit,” and he just follows her into the bathroom, where she slams down on her knees in front of the toilet and ducks her head.

“Oh, shit, oh,” Bambam whimpers and gathers her hair behind her head. He holds it in one fist and closes the bathroom door shut with the other, flipping on the exhaust fan.

It’s just burning, burning, burning in every part of her. Loud retches and sobs and she can’t even see anything besides white porcelain in the smear of her wet eyes, crystallizing in her lashes and dropping in to join the mess in the toilet.

When there’s nothing left to come up, she leans on the wall, and Bambam lets go of her hair. She can’t feel anything, knows it probably smells God fucking awful and wants to apologize to Bambam for it, but she just sits still. All she feels is heavy.

}}}

The bathroom is quiet, and still. Even though they’re both in it, there’s never been less movement, or sound, or time passing.

Bambam’s voice is soft and concerned in their mother tongue. “Are you... good? Are you okay?”

Clearly she’s not. She rarely ever gets sick from drinking like this.

“How much did you have?”

Lisa can’t speak. She wants to say _it’s not the drinks_. She tries to say _Jennie is out there kissing Jongin or Kai or whatever because I’m a goddamn idiot for falling in love with her_.

She manages an answer in a voice so spent and raspy she doesn’t recognize it as her own. “Two. Glasses of champagne. And a shot. But it’s not that. It’s Jennie.”

The heaving has stopped but the tears haven’t and it fucks up her lashes, drags streaks of clean flesh down the blush and highlighter that she’d taken so much care in dappling onto her cheeks.

“Why am I crying? Because a girl kissed a boy? Am I a child? Am I thirteen?” She feels fucking hysterical even with her inner sober self chiding her for the theatrics. Each word comes out bloated with grief, acts worthy of the Asian dramas she’d binged with Jennie.

“Oh, babe. Let me get you some water. And Gatorade.”

Their exit is absolutely graceless and Bambam says Lisa’s sick and they’d better get home, they’ll send their love in the group chat, before grabbing a bottle of 97 Bubbly for their own.

During the Uber home Lisa has no expression on her face and just lets her eyes blur out the splots of headlights and streetlamps of LA traffic. Her head lays heavy on the side and Bambam had somehow possessed the foresight to grab a plastic bag from Jungkook’s plastic bag of plastic bags in the kitchen, just in case she had any aftershocks. But Lisa just blinks and feels how the tears have dried on her cheeks and left an unsavory stiffness in her eyes.

When they get to their house Bambam drags her out of the car and deposits her in her room with two glasses of water and a frowning forehead kiss. He asks if she wants to talk but Lisa’s already on her way to unconsciousness and he has to take her shoes off for her.

She would love to believe that making out with someone at a party can mean hardly anything, she knows it herself firsthand. But the image she can’t shake before she falls asleep is of Jennie on the balcony, lit like a goddamn movie star, pressed against someone who was not her, giving kisses that could not be hers. The last thing she sees is the vase of flowers Jennie had given to her, on her nightstand, and mockery was never floral before now.

When she wakes up she quells everyone’s concerned texts (including Jennie’s) with a copy-pasted _i’m fine, just got sick lol_. They all post their pictures from the party. Lisa does it for optics (but don’t they all?), just the group shot, after having a pouty staredown with the hazy selfies of her and Jennie. The thank you video goes up and Lisa smiles with her cheeks like she always does, claps her hands together and sing-songs _khawp khun_ in unison with Bambam and the other Thai 97 liners. After that, she goes home and somehow brings herself to finish their bottle of custom champagne.

The days feel like fumbles as she tries to distract herself with some impulse purchases, new toys for the cats, a waffle iron. She tells Jennie that work is busy.

But it isn’t, in fact Lisa turns down a majority of the modeling offers she gets and uses a whopping two whole sick days at the studio. She apologizes to Momo for having to pick up the slack, promising to make it up to her somehow.

Jennie posts a picture of Jongin at a cafe that Lisa doesn’t recognize. They only see each other when Jennie comes by to drop off a gifted Celine handbag that she already owns, right before she has to attend a brutal slate of meetings. Lisa doesn’t ask about Jongin.

After two weeks, or maybe three, she buys a new bathtub. She takes a lot of baths and settles into numbness.

The bathtub, like so much of what they own and love, is gaudy as all shit. The body of it boasts a marble surface and is held up by golden claw-feet. There’s not a single straight edge on it, gentle slopes like a ceramic bowl. It fucking cost $3,600 plus shipping.

Lisa is already sitting in it, water up to the skin of her collarbones, hair tied and piled high on her head. On the side table she’s pulled up next to it is the withering bouquet from Jennie. She’s holding a single peony from it, plucking its curled petals off one by one and dropping them into the still water. _Loves me, loves me not._ Each one that hits the surface makes little ripples and sends the other petals into languid melodic motion around her.

Bambam leans in the doorway and watches her without a word. The tub is ornate but delicate looking, holding an equally delicate looking girl as she surrounds herself in little slivers of pink.

He tries to find the words to say. _You look like you should be smoking right now_. Or _let me get the Instax to immortalize your dread on film_. Or _why does it smell really good even though you’re in here_.

Instead he opts for “having fun as human soup?”

She keeps on peeling the flower, gaze unchanging. “You should join me. This soup is too bland right now.” Deepened pout, drop another petal. “Needs some spice.”

He pauses to look to the side and think for a few moments. Then he unbuttons his shirt, sheds his pants and clothes but keeps his jewelry on. Lisa is still wearing her rings, nails painted black (except for two that are trimmed: the ring and middle) stark against the shrinking flower bulb. He grabs a flower from the bunch for himself and climbs into the tub.

There are shallow splash noises as he gets in, first one leg, then the other, then he slowly sits opposite of her. His body dips down and submerges, the petals make way for him in tiny waves.

The bath is just shy of pleasantly warm. Lisa must have been here for a while already. They fold their legs a little so their knees breach the surface of the water, making space for each other. Both of them have stupidly long legs but she settles comfortably between his.

Bambam grins goofily. “This is like when my parents would bathe me and my siblings at the same time. I think we need some rubber ducks.”

He picks off a petal that got stuck to his chest. She still doesn’t react or get distracted from her handiwork.

“I googled what peonies mean. Like, the symbolism of it.”

Bambam glances down at the one in his hand. “Oh. Is that what these are?” He doesn’t know shit about flowers.

Lisa twirls the stem in her fingers. “They’re supposed to be romantic, and symbolize compassion and good fortune.”

She strokes the soft blush of the remaining petals before closing her hand around them, feeling them fold and crush under her grip.

“But they can also mean bashfulness, and shame.” She lowers her hands and the flower clutched within them into the water, like she wants it to drown.

Bambam is quiet for a long time before he mutters with a pout, “well, damn.” He offers his peony to Lisa, who doesn’t move or respond. Her eyes frown more than her mouth does. He puts it on top of her head, nestled in the center of her bun.

Lisa sniffs. “Maybe we should fuck so I feel better and stop thinking about this.” Because distractions help, whether it’s in work or content or sex. It’s understood between the two of them that joke and truth can co-exist.

He scoffs, but he’s still smiling, eyes intrigued. “You know how long it’s been since I’ve been with a girl?”

And now it’s her turn to scoff. “Honestly? Probably the same amount of time since I’ve been with a guy.”

He shakes his head with a pitying “mm, fair enough, that does make me feel bad for you.”

Bambam reaches across to cup the side of her face, getting it wet as she rushes a kiss into his palm. He has the idea to scoop up a handful of water and dribble it in streams down her cheeks, a waterfall of surrogate tears.

“Oh no, babe, stop crying.” He adopts this maddening whiny voice of faux concern and it almost makes Lisa smile, almost. “Fine, okay, we can fuck if it means you’ll stop crying.” He groans like he’s been defeated, as if either of them need to reconsider it.

♂[

He rises from the tub and Lisa does end up smiling at the sight of his dick swinging between his legs, wondering how long it’ll take for him to get hard.

They towel off and Bambam makes sure all the cats are out of her bedroom, shooing Lily into the kitchen. He returns from his own room with a condom to see Lisa with her hair down, touching herself lazily, reclined and thinking about nothing in particular.

Her legs part for him to crowd over her, and he swoops down to kiss her, first lips, then cheek, then below her ear.

“Wait,” Lisa starts, wrapping her arms around him. “Just hold me first.”

So he does, keeping her close and running his fingers through her hair with some loving leisure. And she feels the decade of comfort laying in their bodies, lithe and flush against one another. Lisa tries to imagine everything being okay as long as she has him, skin bare and warm.

She mutters into his shoulder, “I had a good cry and now I just need a good come.”

He hums in understanding. “Are you sure?”

Yeah, she’s sure. It’s not like she’s acting out to make someone jealous. It’s not like her hand and her bullet vibe are enough to take her mind off things, there needs to be a warm body involved. She nods, because this is just between her and Bambam, she presses more kisses into his neck.

“How do you want it?” He asks, holding her thighs. She pulls herself upright to straddle his hips.

“Mm, I wanna sit on your face. Ride you a little then we’ll go from there.” Casually, like she’s deciding on what to order for lunch. She thinks of putting it on a t-shirt: _It’s MY coping sex and I get to choose the position!_ She probably won’t suck his dick but she’s in a weird place right now, anything could happen.

Bambam lets out a small moan beneath her, tightens his grip on her thighs just barely. He really is handsome, and fun to kiss, lips thick and generous when Lisa tugs the bottom lip between her teeth and sighs into his mouth. She wants to put marks on him and pretend they belong to each other that way. If there’s proof of them on each other, maybe it’ll prolong the distraction. When she sucks little red spots onto his collarbones, it’s an inside joke, purple at the punchline, the meaning eluding onlookers.

They probably knew they were going to do this again eventually. At the cusp of seventeen, when they thought it really mattered, they’d agreed to be each other’s first times, because apparently it had to be “special.” And though they don’t regret it, there wasn’t really anything resembling a milestone about it.

Lisa remembers how Jennie had described them: “gay with exceptions.” And here they are, each other’s exceptions. They don’t mind.

She grinds against his thigh and holds his cock, feels herself get wetter with each push of her hips and sees how her movements whittle away at Bambam’s composure, how they pull little bitten-back moans out of him. When she raises up to slide herself against the length of his cock, still thumbing at the head, it punches out a groan from his throat, eyes fixed on her busy hand. His own hands have since smoothed up her torso to cup her breasts and slowly circle each nipple.

“I’m gonna mess you up,“ she says, because she’s in the mood to tease.

Of course, since they’ve been braided into each other for years, he’s also in the mood to tease. “What, after our like, chaste-as-Hell flower bath?”

She wants to shut him up so she lifts up onto her knees, breaking the heated contact, to his quickly-shelved disappointment. She brackets his head between her forearms to thread her fingers through his hair.

“I know you’re out of practice so I’ll go easy on you.” A kiss to his nose and she starts to brace herself over his face. He smiles and laughs a little, _right back at you_ , the heat of his breath already so close to where she’s already _so_ slick.

And it’s warm and wet, his mouth against her. The _sounds_ from his tongue and lips make her whole body blush and she’s caught off-guard by the reminder that this is how good it feels.

It’s almost sloppy but there’s some strategy to it as he laps at her with the flat of his tongue. His moans are guttural in his throat and seep through the milliseconds that he pulls away to breathe before returning with kisses and little sucks to her clit, which make her whine and curl her fingers into her palms.

With her bottom lip caught between her teeth, she moves her hips, hands on the headboard while she uses his mouth to direct the pleasure. Rocking on his face, _don’t think, don’t think, don’t think_.

It’s a bit easier not to think when Bambam digs his fingers just a little harder into her thighs and does something with his tongue that makes Lisa’s spine tighten up and she keens, swivels herself with more vigor and feels the buzz of Bambam’s voice through his lips. She runs her fingers through his hair and thinks, off-hand, that she needs to ask what conditioning treatment he’s been using. It feels healthier than when he went platinum.

“Fuck,” she curses in English first, then Thai when he teases his fingers against her, rubbing them easily against her folds. In just moments he pushes one inside, then two, working alongside his tongue, making her shiver. His nose is pressed up against her too, and she grinds down on the combined sensation of his mouth and long, slender fingers.

The rhythm doesn’t have room or time to overwhelm her, in and out and lick and suck, before she comes on his face, trembling with his name trapped in her throat. He makes some satisfied noise underneath her as he laps her up and her thighs threaten to close around his head. And she _does_ feel better, he holds her through the aftershocks, his smile is glossy and bright.

It’s been a while. Bambam smacks his lips as he sucks the slick off his fingers. “Tasty.”

“Shut up. It’s stupid how good you are with your mouth.” There’s nothing but care in her voice as she swings her leg off the side and moves herself down. They’re face-to-face again and Lisa smoothes her hands down his chest, nails tracing the black ink letters down his ribs. Her breathing is still quick, his skin is smooth and soft but taut to the touch, like the sturdy stems of the peonies she needs to get rid of, before they really start messing with her.

She pouts down at the sight of his cock, hard and needy and leaking. “I want to kiss this better,” she says softly while her hand wraps around it, “but it is not going in my mouth.”

Bambam whines, “That’s fine, just, like, touch me, please.” He’s always been a good sport.

Another shuffling of bodies, an adjusted hold on his cock and Lisa is mouthing up the length. Looking up at him through her lashes in the way she _knows_ looks good, on camera and in bed, and it’s confirmed by the hiss of breath he takes in as her lips reach the head. But it gets boring, teasing him with her mouth, so they negotiate, and Bambam wants to take her from behind. _Because I never get to_ , he reasons, like he’s talking about riding shotgun or picking what they watch on Netflix.

She gets on all fours and somewhat expects him to just grab her by the hips and fuck. Real stupid and man-like. But he keeps feeling her, running his hot palms up her stomach and sides to squeeze at her breasts and he holds her like that, before one hand goes between their bodies to guide his cock into her.

There’s Lisa’s rabbit vibe, and there’s this. The push is warmer, wetter, softer than anything she could manage with just herself and some cute pink silicone. Bambam isn’t huge but he fills her up with more than enough of what she craves, and thank god for his newfound affinity for the arm press machines at the gym. He’s stronger and broader now than either of them ever thought he was capable of, and he holds her firm to his chest as he fucks into her, kissing sweet satisfied little hums into the top notches of her spine.

Each thrust brings her closer to forgetting, each moan of one other’s names is a step toward moving on, and maybe this is the only kind of intimacy she needs. Maybe the only kind she has the capacity for.

There’s about as much romance in it as they can muster, being _them_ —their slender fingers locked together over Lisa’s heart, bath-soft bodies colliding in a filthy chorus of gasps. Lisa’s other hand works wildly at her pulsing clit, voice ascending in pitch until her mind bends like rainbow light reflecting through glass and water, lemon-flavored condensation at the edge.

She needs release as much as she needs to be lost in this feeling of perpetual overwhelm, to always be teetering off the ledge. Pleasure is an effective distraction and maybe she can make it last forever.

But right now forever is just a drop of a moment, suspended and distilled in the bottle of her bedroom. She’s full of him and she’s drawn up tight, whimpering, shivering, she needs some goddamn water after this. Bambam’s good for that, an orgasm or two and getting her water when she needs it, holding her hair back when she needs it.

Lisa lets out a pathetic little sob and feels herself clench white-hot around Bambam, who comes in the condom with a breathy groan and a squeeze of her hand. His arm pulls her in by the waist before he pulls out panting, and they slowly melt into the sheets pooled on her bed.

]♂

Her nose wrinkles at the reminder that sex has a smell.

“That wasn’t bad,” Lisa says to Bambam’s quickly falling-out-of-consciousness body. “It was like how I normally get myself off, but with extra steps, plus you were here.”

He makes a noise that’s halfway to a laugh. “Thanks.”

She nuzzles into the crook of his arm and lets his warmth and familiarity blanket her. At least she can have this, still, a backup lover. They’ve grown into each other well. In their language she mutters some reminder of love into his shoulder. She can’t completely stop thinking about Jennie but it’s dulled now, she can breathe from her chest now.

He kisses her head and keeps rubbing her back with one hand, knowing his arm will be asleep in the morning with the weight of her head on it. They both know, and his touches remain gentle, feather-light, with a staying presence. He’s not as soft as she _knows_ Jennie is, but it’ll do, for tonight.

“Love you too, Lisa.”

When she closes her eyes, she doesn’t dream, thankfully. She wakes up to Latte resting next to her, like Bambam had transformed in his sleep, but she checks her phone for a text message that proves otherwise.

> ilove you and the sex was fine but let’s never do
> 
> that again ❤️ what ice cream flavor you want
> 
> why u hate my coochie
> 
> so much dam
> 
> 🍓🍦 pls
> 
> your coochie 💯 and you know it. i just hate
> 
> seeing you so sad that you resort to men
> 
> shut up!!! ily 🥺🥺🥺
> 
> ty for dick n ice cream

She wonders what he’s up to until she opens up Snapchat and sees his most recent story, a zoomed-in candid of Yugyeom looking through a binder of tattoo flash designs. The caption is “gettin inked up wit my boy again!!!”

In the few hours before she has to drop by the studio with finished paperwork, she does some more out-of-character chores. Cleans the kitchen, the fridge, waters the sad little balcony plants she got specifically because they were supposed to be low-maintenance. She’s in the middle of feeding the cats when Jennie texts her.

> miss you. so do they
> 
> [IMG_000.jpg]

It’s a picture of Kuma and, funny enough, Kai, her family dog. A sad smile finds its way onto Lisa’s face, giving way to a wrong-sounding laugh at the irony.

> miss you too
> 
> jennie 😔
> 
> promise we’ll hang
> 
> out soon 💖
> 
> give em a kiss
> 
> for me!!!
> 
> 💋🐶💋🐶

She hits send and hears the front door open. Bambam’s home with a new tattoo, a tub of strawberry ice cream, and the marks she’d left on him last night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Talk to me on [CuriousCat](https://curiouscat.qa/changbinglish) and [Twitter](https://twitter.com/changbinglish) @changbinglish

**Author's Note:**

> Talk to me on [CuriousCat](https://curiouscat.qa/changbinglish) and [Twitter](https://twitter.com/changbinglish) @changbinglish


End file.
